3 May 2006
New record: posted my 20 pences into coffee machine (at a rough estimate, note I was hightly aggravated at the time) 23 times before they registered. An all time low, or high depending on outlook, on the epic quest to obtain a caffeine fix. Scummy coffee machine: 1, Anna :0
Perhaps it was trying to tell me something about my caffeine intake, all that stimulent pulsing through my veins etc. But frankly, the fact that I'm prepared to guzzle exhorbitant quantities greedily is a speck of hope currently, weighty with significance. So, if the bleeding machine cooperates, plastic cup crap with a gritty layer of scum (perhaps capuccino aspirations) will continue to pass my lips.
It is all well and good being able to reference such things as 'Paradise Lost', 'Anatomy of Meloncholy' and 'Ulyssus' in a literary and intellectually offhand manner, but where the skill lies is in interspersing all this pretentiousness with contrasting works such as Harry Potter, Jilly Cooper and 'Each Peach Pear Plum'. Literary snobbery really gets my goat. If something is only being read to thereafter be quoted and referred to with the sole intention of looking clever and cultured then the act is not justified. If enjoyment is not gained by sitting down to read something with a mug of coffee, surrounded by squashy cushions, then there is not a jot of point to it. Not one jot.
Without fail, last lesson on a Tuesday the torso tremblings take effect. I should really know this by now, yet it always seems to catch me unawares. I cannot stand uncontrollable physicalities (stubbon hair kinks, foot cramp, eye twitches etc) but the torso tremblings really take the biscuit. In the aftermath of lunch, in the quiet, humidity of the year 9 (and all the odours that go with them) vacated classroom, they strike. Sitting next to R, who closely looks over my notes so is therefore an inch away, I try to ignore them and feel the hot blood come to the surface of my immobile face. Just as Currie makes a profound point that blows everyone away and an awed silence decsends on his young wards, my chest chooses to object with a groan. The more uptight and tense I become about it, the worse the effect. I cannot relax into the usual furious, ferociously scribbled notes, but remain upright, only moving my eyes out of fear of disturbing the inner indigestion monster. R must think I'm a lunatic. I don't know how others can take all these weird and wonderful workings of the human body so lightly; many openly belch, hiccough, and worse besides, yet I cannot experience an inner creak like rumble without being paralysed with mortification. If I just went with the flow and and embraced bodily functions, they probs would not occur in the first place. Yet I remain a prude.
It is odd that often one can see a murmour of beauty, or something of admirable worth, in oneself (such as a flash of an eye in flattering shadow glimpsed in a wing mirror, or a well placed foot arching attractively) yet it is so easy to feel such a mess such a lot of the time. A fresh injection of novelty is all it takes to not feel grotty, whatever it may be, large or small. Merely adding a coloured streak to hair, introducing a new silver studded piercing to an ear, or newly painted nails can give a little lift and keep one in better spirits for atleast an uplifting moment. Not quite being able to put one's finger on the something that is making us feel a little brighter, that anticipative feeling and knowing that atleast something is a little improved, is unparallelled. Having anything new can have this effect. Even knowing that a new blog could well be created this evening.